Never Forgive, Never Forget
by sxmmy
Summary: Sam and Dean are captured by rogue hunters, one of which is an old 'family friend'. Torture tw. Hurt!Dean, Caring!Sam. Spoilers for seasons 1-7.
1. Caught

_No way out, Dean._

Sam's exact wording. Normally he'd make it his mission to take the opposite side and explain how that wasn't the case, how it'd never **be **the case, that there was always a way out- but Sam meant it in a very literal way. They were boarded up in an old beaten down garage; the one structure standing between them and those _hunting _them. Naturally, the whole situation seemed off, with the whole role-reversal thing… _being_ _hunted_ was a little different than being the hunter.

They'd been in tight spots before. Hell… they'd been in crap a lot worse than this before, not that the fact made this situation any less life-threatening.

"This door isn't gonna hold long." Sam's voice chimed in.

"Thanks for the optimism." Dean snapped back, frustration rimming his tone as he paced the pitifully small space inside the garage. Nothing. Not a thing to use for barring the door, not even some faded paint-peeled toolbox lying around.

"Realism."

"Yeah, whatever. Dude, this place is jacked. Wiped clean, nothing we can use."

"And only one exit." He added, and Dean had to bite down the snarky remark that automatically formed on his tongue.

"Humans, man. _Humans._" Dean muttered distastefully, eyes trailing back to the one and _only _viable entrance to the place, where their pursuers would be knocking momentarily. It was just a matter of time… they were on the boys' heels, last Dean checked. For a minute, the only sound to be detected was their own uneasy breathing; the soft sound of metal cutting through air as both Winchesters drew their knives.

"You ready, Sammy?" Dean asked carefully, turning to meet his brother's eyes in a long look that said a **lot** more than he needed to voice. Sam caught the drift. Of course he did, he always knew what Dean wasn't saying—even when he didn't want him to. Sometimes especially.

But not this time. This time, it was serious. It meant that they'd been caught, it meant this could very well be the end of the road; but then again, that was true for them about every day recently. Occupational hazard. They weren't going to try holding the door closed themselves… that would just delay the inevitable, also waste any advantage they had away from the upcoming fight.

"Yeah. " was Sam's quiet response. Maybe it wasn't a lot, but it let Dean know for sure he got the gravity of the situation. This was a little more serious than a 'tight spot'. Both flinched instinctively when a harsh splintering noise rippled through the room, beginning at the door—signaling the end of their hard earned respite.

Dean's fists tightened, short nails biting into one palm while the other wrapped stiff around the handle of the demon knife until his knuckles whitened. Adrenaline pumped through him as the next sound shuddered through the beams, a warning of their attacker's impending entrance, and he lifted his head—anger barbing his tone.

"Hurry it up, you sons of bitches!"

Sam shot one last glance Dean's way, but his attention was quickly redirected as the third assault on the failing door forced it slightly open. Through the crack, slivers of faces were visible—furious eyes, raised voices. One more push and the door would burst from its hinges. Dean instinctively reached out his free hand, fingers curling into Sam's tan jacket and warning him back. He couldn't exactly _move _Sam, but when that door finally busted free, he made a point of jerking his grip backward- stepping forward in _front _of him with eyes cold and intent on killing anything that moved. But he resisted.

Two… three… _five… __**six**_men streamed in the newly created opening, and Dean knew immediately they couldn't win this fight. Not without going down in the process. He straightened somewhat, forcing nerves down as he drew a slow breath. Well… they weren't attacking either.

The tension was palpable. Each was prepared for the other to make a move, and Dean was half convinced Sam was ready to start the chaos himself—but Dean didn't give him the chance. _Grudgingly _he lifted his blade, signaling he wouldn't strike. It was too close quarters in there, too risky. Maybe he'd try something, if he was _alone_… but that wasn't the case.

"We're _surrendering_?" Sam whispered harshly to Dean as they shifted to the back-to-back position, tone laced with disbelief.

"Too risky. Let's see if we can't talk this one out before it comes to _that_, hear me?"

"I hear you."

Dean made a point of clearing his throat _loudly, _chin lifting with his natural arrogance, subjecting their enemies to cold scrutiny. His specialty… as well as his overlarge mouth to compliment it.

"Look, I don't know what you bunch are after, but you're after _something_. Humans always are. We going to talk about it, or are we going to take you bitches out? Honestly, I'm down with either. "

"_Dean." _Came Sam's anticipated warning, but Dean didn't turn. No… he'd get them out of this. They'd come through, just like all the other times.

"Well well well." A deep voice emerged from one of the six, a dark haired man with equally dark eyes. The yellow light emanating from the hanging bulb washed over his cold smile, one that albeit made Dean's skin actually _want_ to crawl.

"Dean Winchester...and Sam. I wish I could say it's a pleasure to make your acquaintance."

"Just tell us who the hell you _are_ and what the hell you **want**." Came Dean's calculated response, his arm lowering with the knife as he assumed a more attack-ready position. None of them had any sort of wacky mojo or firearms, that he could tell.

"Eventually. Right now, I want to savor the moment. Not exactly your _finest_ _hour_."

That's it, this guy officially made Dean want to throw up his guts in a trash can. Upon closer observation, he was tall—not as tall as Sam, but tall enough. Taller than him. Dark locks were thick with grease, and there was that… _unstable_ look in his eyes, one that made Dean definitely uneasy; though he sure as hell wouldn't show it. Any of it. He opened his mouth to respond, but Sam beat him to the punch.

"We've had better days."

"Speaking of those, you don't have many left."

As of then, Dean was hanging on by a thread. He wasn't seeing a way out of this that didn't end in his knife protruding from the bastard's throat. And then…

"Don't worry about it. We're going to have a lot of fun, _Sammy._"

That was _it. _

A sudden burst of energy propelled Dean forward, knife in hand and raised, preparing physically and mentally for the bloodshed that was about to occur—but then something stopped him, dead in his tracks. Dean's muscles stiffened with a pent up seething **_rage_** as he forced himself to exhale softly, eyes fixed on the gun the suited man had pulled out from his jacket… barrel pressed against Sam's temple.

"Okay okay, _easy_!" The elder Winchester's immediate reaction spilled through cool lips.

"Drop the knife, Dean," came the infuriatingly soft command, which was even _more _infuriating with the fact Dean _knew_ he had no choice but to comply. But instead of acknowledging the guy as he did so, Dean shifted his focus to Sam. Fingers slowly loosened their grip around the knife as he sunk to the floor, releasing it completely after an intentionally prolonged moment. Maybe just to stick it to the suited guy.

"Hey. We'll get out of this." Dean's words were directed _only _towards Sam, who gave a small nod in return— but the elder could tell he didn't have the same confidence.

Dean could read Sam just as much as Sam could read him.

"You're going to come along now. Notice, I'm not asking." The seemingly 'acting leader' piped up again, but Dean purposefully ignored the bastard, _fury_ making every muscle tense. _Oh, he was going to kill that damn son of a bitch._

Dean couldn't help the nagging thought that… well. Whatever those sick bastards had in mind for them, it wasn't _death_\- and that was hardly comforting. It just meant they had something **worse**.

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**a/n Thank you so much for reading, I treasure every view. Let me know in a review if this is something you'd be interested in me continuing!**


	2. Bad Blood

Everything started out completely dark. It was a strange process, regaining consciousness, like slowly emerging from deep water. The first thing Dean could make out was his own heartbeat; good. Not dead. Well…. _yet_, anyways. Then light began to invade his vision, emphasizing shapes that shifted from black to gray—until real color began to bleed through. Dean blinked once or twice, adjusting his neck to the side with a heavy **grunt** as he became aware enough to feel the painful throbbing in his temple.

"-_Sam…_" he mumbled, attempting to reach up and touch his head before realizing both his wrists were bound. _Perfect_.

"Dean! Dean, you alright?" He could hear Sam's voice, and immediately his eyes were open again, searching to pin down the source. Sam was there—to Dean's relief appearing _mostly_ unharmed, sitting in a chair across from him with wrists bound to the armrests in a similar fashion to Dean's.

"Yeah… just peachy." He muttered, eyes moving from Sam's worried expression and settling on the scarlet stains adorning his forehead. The older Winchester gritted his teeth.

"…Son of a bitch."

"I'm fine, Dean. You should see you." Sam remarked, sensing the cause of his brother's rage—but still, there was a softness to be found in his words, slight irritation aside. It struck a chord with Dean, and now that he actually thought to pay attention, he could tell by the other's knitted brows and the dark look in generally bright eyes that Sam was equally as perturbed. It was a standalone reminder for Dean to keep it together… for Sammy's sake, if not anything else.

So instead of dwelling on his rapidly growing anger, which could end up explosive, Dean decided to give their surroundings a double take. It was a small room; one he didn't recognize… meaning they were moved. Two doors, nothing inside but the chairs, his and Sam's- turned toward each other. There was a small oak table blocking one of the entrances, but as far as Dean could tell, nothing was on the surface.

Turning back to Sam, he nodded.

"The bastard say what he wants?" Sam shook his head, sighing.

"Not directly, but from what I can tell, they're after info."

"Oh, yeah, and like _hell_ I'm going to give them info."

"You don't even know what info they want, Dean." Dean grunted, turning toward Sam with a look of incredulity.

"Does it _matter_? I ain't giving it to them." Sam didn't respond audibly, but his silence made it clear he had an opinion. But that silence didn't hold out.

"Look, I don't think we should mess around with this." That caused him to pause a moment. Then, like a slowly assembling puzzle, he could connect the dots. The tension beneath Sam's muscles, the clenched fists. The nervous eyes, always back toward _him _and then away again, like he was afraid something was going to— well. Like he was _afraid._

Dean shifted in his seat as much as the restraints would allow, the pain fading somewhat as he pushed it to the back of his mind; new worries capturing his attention.

"I'm getting the impression I missed something." he worded the question carefully; everything calculated, down to his exact tone. "Did they—" Sam looked frustrated, expression hardening as he interjected.

"_No_. Dean, I told you I'm **fine**."

He wasn't fine. It was becoming clearer by the second as Dean fully regained consciousness, and what Sam _said _definitely didn't line up with what Dean saw.

"Sammy."

"What do you want me to say?" He sounded angry now, so Dean uncharacteristically made the 'wise' choice and stopped pressing.

He couldn't help but wonder about it, regardless. What could they have said, to make him act that way? The thought was triggering, and Dean bit the inside of his lip as fresh anger bubbled to the surface. Oh, when they got out of this, he was going to tear that smug look he remembered off the bastard's face. They just needed their escape plan.

"Okay… well, do we have a damn clue about who they are?" Sam's look shifted at that to something more normal, which eased some of the tension in the pit of Dean's stomach.

"Not for sure, but I have a running theory. I had a bag over my head for most of the trip, but I was able to get a glimpse of their arsenal when we got here. Rock salt, holy water, knives with weird engravings… a spray painted Devil's Trap. "

Dean nodded along Sam's words, slowly absorbing them.

"So…they're _hunters_?"

"Know anyone else who'd have those things on hand?" His little brother had a point. Dean shrugged after a moment of thought, meeting Sam's eyes.

"Wouldn't be the first time we've been hunted by hunters."

It was a reference to their 'favorite vamp', Gordon Walker, who never gave up trying to take them both apart— well. At least until Sam took _him _apart. Literally.

"Yeah," Sam grunted, "you don't have to remind me."

Creaking hinges diverted both the boys' attention to the door behind Dean's chair. Silence settled back into the room after the door opened and closed, neither Winchester daring to break it. Dean, unable to crane his neck far enough to see for himself, carefully listened instead to the sound of approaching steps—gaze directed at Sam, whose eyes were fixed on the newcomer. Dean could see the _anger_ flaring in them; and he steeled himself for what was to come.

"Howdy boys." Was the greeting, if it could be categorized as one. He waited until the man stepped into his vision. Sure enough.. it was the suited one, a gleaming knife lodged between his fingers.

"I know you both have questions, so I'm going to give you a little… orientation." That sick smile again, stretching over unnervingly white teeth. Dean had to bite down the compulsion to cringe. He'd seen a lot of crap in his time, creepy and sickening and psycho and _you name it_—but there was something about looking into the face of a mega twisted psychopathic **bastard** with an ax to grind and a knife in his hand that tipped the scale in his book. Despite his discomfort, Dean assumed a grin drenched in sarcasm.

"Oh great, I was beginning to think you forgot about us, professor." The man straightened, turning to meet Dean's gaze. He didn't back down.

"The name is Jenkins. _Connor_ Jenkins. Don't suppose that name rings a bell?"

Sam and Dean exchanged glances, but they were still none the wiser. No recognition flashed in his mind, and judging by the slight shrug of his shoulders, it was the same case for Sam.

"Should it?" The younger questioned back, eyebrows lowering in fairly contained confusion.

The guy didn't look half surprised.

"Guess not. You don't really tell your kids a lot about the people you ruin." There was a hell of a lot of bitterness detectable in _that _line, dormant or not, but two words stuck out in Dean's mind. _Your kids. _Briefly, Dean's gaze found Sam's.

"You saying you knew our dad?"

"Oh, we were best of friends. Sleepovers, tea parties, the whole nine."

"Well that's just great, I'm tearing up."

Dean could already piece together that this new information wasn't going to swing in their favor. Obviously, John left some broken hearts behind, and this guy wasn't here for a happy reunion. Besides.. Jenkins didn't seem like he had any heartstrings to pull, even if that _was _a viable option.

"No matter. Well, Sam. Dean. This is how it's going to work. My job is _asking _the questions, and yours is _answering _them. Simple enough, right? But, of course, as you may have guessed…. in case you failed to grasp the concept, I brought this." Jenkins raised the knife for both to see, cold gaze shifting between them.

Dean watched as the man traced the blade's outline meticulously, willing the dude to slice his damn finger.

"Let's hope it doesn't come to that."

"Yeah yeah, sunshine, we know this dance, and honestly we've had prettier partners than you," Dean retorted, seemingly unimpressed- sitting upward in his chair as tall as he could make himself, wrists pressing into the thick ropes binding them until it _hurt_.

"Just know that when this is done, I'm going to take that nice little instrument of yours and stick it between your _eyes_."

Outwardly, the threat only seemed to bounce off the other; even go so far as to amuse him... which, of course, only irritated Dean more.

"Yes, I've heard about you. I've heard your bark is worse than your bite."

Dean shrugged loosely in what looked to be a careless motion, despite the tension that lay hidden beneath his skin.

"Yeah well, let me out of this, and you'll find out." A half-smile stretched over Jenkins' face, as if he couldn't conjure enough effort to display a full one.

"Like father like son; but tempting as that is, I have you right where I want you. Sorry, boys. This is nothing… _personal_."

"You get screwed over by our dad and _this isn't personal?_" Sam's voice was laced with disbelief, green eyes a treasure trove of skepticism.

_That_ struck a nerve, apparently. He observed as Jenkins' grip flexed around the knife, as his eyes narrowed to points equally as sharp as he turned toward Sam. Dean felt a prickle of unease; striking nerves was supposed to be _his _tactic. Obviously, neither of them was going to get out of this unscathed, but that didn't mean he was completely hopeless. He could steal the brunt of the fire away from Sam, but not if _Sam_ was the one pissing the guy off. The silence that followed seemed like an eternity.

"It was a…long time ago, I've moved on. It just so happened to be the case that you have the intel I _need, _so no—"

Dean felt his muscles tighten as he watched Jenkins begin advancing toward Sam, the tension grating at him near unbearable. The man stopped a few feet away from Sam's chair, gaze not having shifted while Sam met it with that blatant defiance (fully familiar to Dean.) For a moment, he thought nothing would happen—that Jenkins would shake it off, that Sam would get off easy; but then he lifted the knife. Gripping it by the blade, Jenkins proceeded to swing the thick handle across the younger Winchester's face with a surprising speed, and Dean swore he heard a _crack._

"—it's nothing _personal_."

Sam's head snapped to the side, and Dean was up and struggling and all **fire** in an instant (though in truth, he was powerless to retaliate.)

"Son of a _bitch! _If you touch him again, I _swear _to_…"_

"…_Dean_." Sam warned him off. That was the only, the _only,_ reason in hell he stopped talking, but he continued muttering curses under his breath.

"Now that… _that _is cleared up, I see no reason why we can't begin."

The dark tone of Jenkins' voice begged for attention, but Dean's eyes were trained on the steady flow of blood that had begun to run along the curves of his brother's cheekbone— the drops of scarlet dripping off his chin. _Hate_ for the man before them tightened his chest, but he forced himself to breathe steady. He didn't _care_ about what his dad did to Jenkins back in the day, or whatever crap went down. That was then, this was _now. _Even so, Dean had a feeling opening that can of worms was inevitable.

"How about we start with something simple." Jenkins pulled on his suit, straightening out the wrinkles he'd accumulated from his sudden swing. "There was something your daddy used to carry with him, a… _book _of sorts. Notes. Journal entries about every supernatural monster or item he knew anything about. You should have it with you, he always intended to pass it on to his… sons."

Sam shifted his gaze hesitantly toward Dean, who in turn gave a small shake of his head. The movement drew Jenkins' attention.

"So you _do_ know what I'm referring to," he said slowly, inquisitive gaze finally resting on Sam, "don't you. Well... where is it?"

Sam clenched his jaw, angered eyes lifting to meet the other's in the same defiant, _impudent _way he had **before** Jenkins decorated his face. Dean dug his fingernails into his skin—hoping to drown out the apprehension he felt with pain. _Sammy, don't piss him off. _But Sam didn't get the memo.

"_Bite_ me."

Dean was almost fully convinced Jenkins was going to hit him again, with the way he tensed up and his smirk faded into a scowl— Sam was, too, Dean could see the younger Winchester brace himself as much as he had the freedom to. He braced himself as well, clenching his fists…

But the blow never fell. A wave of confusion crashed over him when Jenkins actually turned _away_ from Sam, and toward **him**.

The next thing Dean knew, his vision was flashing red, and he could see stars.

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**a/n Thank you for such a positive response to the first chapter :) Thanks for reading! Let me know if I should keep going. **


	3. Worth Protecting

**a/n **Thank you all for the kind support! Just wanted to thank** serial blogger, LilyBolt, InsaneRedneck007, Kracken96, Tamie-HU, karonkjb, Cecile, SpiritedQuill** &amp;** Golden Scroll **for the lovely reviews last chapter. ;) You guys are hella awesome.

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Sam had braced himself in anticipation of the pain he was sure would come—but the second Jenkins turned on Dean, he knew he'd been stupid to think his defiance would only hurt _him_. Fear awakened within the younger brother, one that sucked the air from his lungs, leaving his blood ice _cold_ when the bastard threw a punch to the side of Dean's head. Sam knew exactly what Jenkins was after; it was obvious when he turned back after the first hit, almost _studying_ him. He wanted a **reaction**.

Sam was afraid of what Jenkins would do if he got one; if the psychopath realized he'd discovered a weak spot so fast in the 'interrogation'. It had been difficult enough to keep his composure when they… well. Talked about what they'd do to Dean after they'd knocked him unconscious, when they _knew _Sam could hear them. He tried to steel himself, he really did— but when Jenkins hit Dean a second _and third _time_, _with no discernible cause_,_ no amount of self control could suppress Sam's flinch when the bastard drew blood.

"There we go, Sam, _that's_ what I'm looking for." Jenkins' grin still only stretched halfway, causing his entire expression to appear twisted. "Feeling compliant?"

Sam didn't respond, eyes stubbornly fixed on Dean—who groaned heavily, breaths being drawn in irregular, _pained_ gasps. Blood stained the skin along the side of his head and pooled in the corners of his mouth… and the sight alone made Sam inwardly **cringe. **Jenkins raised a brow, looking between the two of them.

"No?" he asked, jaw tensing, and Sam could instantly tell he was going to strike again. A hastily strung together sentence jumped to his mouth, something interesting enough hopefully to stall the blow— but his brother spoke up first, cutting him off.

"Yeah, well… you can shove it…up your ass." The older Winchester retorted, appearing unaffected by the fact his brazen response would land him more hits. _Exactly_ what Sam was trying to avoid_. _He couldn't help feeling a twinge of irritation intertwine with his already present anxiety.

"I don't give a single damn about whatever…_relationship_ you had with our dad back in the golden days, or the sob story of how he broke your poor, fragile heart. Until we know what you want the scrapbook for? We ain't giving you zip." Dean's eyes fixed on Sam when he arrived at the last few words, a seriousness flickering within them.

He meant it. Dean was warning Sam not to give in to the sick son of a bitch. There were numerous secrets and locations to be discovered inside the pages of their dad's journal, many of them that had very dangerous potential. Who knew what a psycho like _Jenkins _wanted with them? Sam bit the inside of his cheek, increasing pressure until the metallic taste of blood filled his mouth.

Yeah, he got it. He understood, protecting those secrets was important. But the fact that Dean wanted Sam not to divulge anything, regardless of what this Jenkins guy did _while at the same time _pissing him off caused the younger brother's stomach to twist in anger. Dean didn't have to give the guy any further reason to hate his guts.

Predictably, Dean was rewarded for his brash words with a fist to his unprotected rib cage. Sam found himself averting his eyes, unwilling to watch directly— chest still tightening and fists still clenching tight until his knuckles appeared pale. Dean endured it as silently as he could manage; there was no doubt in Sam's mind the 'tough act' was for his benefit. _It always was._ The thought caused something deep within him to ache.

Whatever anger that'd accumulated toward Dean melted away in record time, eventually twisting into a dark rage that Sam promised himself Jenkins would _suffer_ from when he got free. He'd pay for every damn hit.

"Trying to keep it together, aren't you," Jenkins' soft words slithered easily from chapped lips, drawing Sam's reluctant gaze back again. The older man was fiddling with his knife in one hand, the other gripping Dean's hair forcefully, propping his head upward. "- for _him_. I understand. It's commendable, really...if not pointless." He paused, seemingly having noted Sam's squirming.

"What's the matter, Sam," Jenkins commented after a moment, turning back _clearly_ satisfied with having gotten under Sam's skin, " not enjoying this? You can make it stop any time. _Sooner_ rather than _later_ would be in this one's best interest. " Sam finally turned his eyes to meet Dean's, brows furrowing as he swallowed hard. It wasn't particularly warm within the room they were being kept in, but there was a thin layer of sweat glistening along his hairline, mingling with the dribbling scarlet. Additionally, there was that _look _on his face; the one Dean only sported when he was in pain...whether or not he had the guts to admit it.

" 's okay, S'mmy," Dean cut in, doing his best to display a weak grin. "He hits like...Taylor freakin'... Swift, drunk." The older Winchester turned, smirk fading as he squinted up at Jenkins, an expression of dissatisfaction spreading rapidly. "Well…Taylor Swift in like, fifty years."

"You've got quite the _mouth_ on you." Jenkins remarked, lifting the knife slowly and pressing its gleaming edge to Dean's chin. Sam tensed instinctively- widened green hues betraying the sudden _fear_ he felt stirring beneath his anger. Dean only grunted, that cocky, _mischievous_ light still traceable in his marred countenance, and seeing it more than anything else Sam was worried about what senseless thing his brother would dare to say next.

"Shake it off, buddy." Sam was willing to bet Jenkins didn't catch the reference. Sure enough... confusion (and possible irritation) flickered in Jenkins' gaze, and not understanding.

"One more time, before I start **digging**," their captor murmured, in Dean's direction, though somehow Sam felt the words were more intended for _him. _"_Where_ _is_ _it_?"

He was answered with silence. Dean wasn't saying anything, and Sam was trying to follow his lead- though truthfully, he was seriously beginning to entertain the idea of spilling. Not entirely certain _why _he felt this way and definitely **not** interested in sorting it out, the younger Winchester focused on the situation at hand.

"I wonder," Jenkins began, subtly working the tip of the blade down Dean's neck, against his chest, hovering over his tattoo... "how long it'd take you to bleed out, with minimal injury but _just _enough to kill you? There are all sorts of experiments we can try. Especially because I don't need **both **of you, just _one_."

Sam's eyebrows knitted, and Dean had just met his gaze before his face contorted into a grimace; a short cry of pain mixed with surprise tearing from his lips as Jenkins buried the knife's edge into his skin. But instead of removing it, Jenkins kept a firm hold on the handle, eyes suddenly obscured by a _darkness_ that had previously been concealed. It was as if a beast lay hidden beneath the man's skin, one that _hungered_ for spilled blood. It was a frightening thing to witness, no matter how many times Sam had witnessed this case unfold. Dean's breathing grew ragged, chest rising and falling deeper every additional agonizing second the metal penetrated his flesh, and that's when Jenkins began to _twist it. _At first, Dean kept quiet, jaw clenching and muscles tightening until the pain would eventually pass, but when it didn't... when it only _worsened_...

"_Stop_ it! " Sam didn't even _think_ before the words were out. He wasn't looking at Dean, but he felt his brother's gaze burn into his skin.

"Are you going to tell me what I need to _know? _" Jenkins shot back, raising a brow, though his humanity seemed to have disappeared completely in the thrill of the moment. Even through it all, Dean kept giving Sam that _glare_\- warning him to keep silent, and at first it was enough. But then Jenkins yanked out the blade, Sam having enough time to catch the flash of dark maroon tainting its fine silver shine before the psycho stuck it back _in. _Twisted it. And then _again. _

Dean was withering, tensing, pulsing with rage and agony both- still as quietly as he could manage- Sam could see his brother's veins pronounced beneath discolored skin, and he felt his stomach drop into an endless abyss as he watched every horror they'd painted in his head come to life. A few minutes of this and suddenly he didn't _care _what Dean would do or say about his decision, or what the Jenkins guy could do with what information he discovered in their dad's journal. If he kept silent, it'd only get worse... and not knowing Jenkins meant not knowing what to expect, which made him dangerous.

They would figure something out, wouldn't they?

They _always_ figured something out. Even when they didn't have a snowball's chance. Maybe they worked best with the odds stacked against them- it seemed to be the reoccurring theme, _who_ _knew_. Maybe Sam could convince Jenkins to take some sort of deal... maybe he could lie about the location and buy them some time, get a hold of Cass, whatever worked. It didn't matter. Just as long as the bastard _stopped._

Sam wouldn't sit there and watch his brother get taken apart. He just wouldn't. Not if it wasn't worth it.

And if Dean had a problem with that... well, _screw him_. Screw him for pissing Jenkins off and in doing so, getting beaten to a pulp. Screw him for not thinking about the effect it would have on Sam, or _not_ _caring_. Besides; it wasn't as if Dean wouldn't do the _**exact **same_ _thing_ if Jenkins had reversed their roles.

"Okay, okay, _stop_. I can tell you, just stop, and we'll talk."

"...Sam..."

"It's not worth protecting, Dean." **_Family _**_is what's worth protecting,_ he added silently. There was a time when Dean made the same argument, and fought like hell to defend it. Even managed to get Sam to believe it, too, and the younger Winchester planned on being loyal to that belief.

Jenkins took a moment, turning to look at Sam with a cold scrutiny- as if evaluating him. Finally, he (_not_ so gingerly) removed the knife- leaving Dean battered, but otherwise okay... for now.

"I'm listening." came the tentative reply. Sam forced himself to draw in a deep breath through shaky lungs, even though the air was stale, trying to gather both thoughts and wits about him before he opened his mouth again... having potentially made a mistake in opening it at all. He coudln't even _look_ at Dean; though inwardly, he promised his brother it'd turn out all right. It **would**.

"Look," Sam began, adjusting his position on the chair as much as he was given leeway to. "where the journal is? You can't go. It's protected, believe me. But we can get it for you."

Jenkins all but _laughed_, dark amusement twitching in aged eyes, almost as if he'd had this entire conversation planned before walking into the room. And maybe he had; who could know how long he'd been envisioning this moment?

"You expect me to let you go?"

Sam straightened, making a subtle attempt to appear taller than he was in the chair- fuller. More authoritative; though it was clear who possessed the authority.

To Sam's surprise, Jenkins actually seemed to consider this. The bulk of his body shifted when he moved away from Dean's chair, drifting to the middle of the room once again, giving Sam a perfect view of his handiwork. Dean was already bleeding heavily, from what Sam could see, from the multiple stab-wounds lining his arm- and a subtle wave of anxiety spread through the younger's chest. He forced himself to look away; he needed to be calm, as clear-headed as he could manage to be.

"Tell you what, Sam," Jenkins roused him from his thoughts, drawing both the brothers' attention. "I'll let you have this one, for ol' time's sake. But I'm not a fool, of course, I'll make the rules. "

Sam returned his gaze, unflinching. He refused to break contact, even when Dean's voice sounded in the background.

"_Sammy_."

Sam ignored it.

"I'm listening."

* * *

The sudden vibration emanating from the cellular device he carried didn't startle Castiel as much as it used to. Funny, the things one could grow accustomed to, when having mingled with the humans for such a lengthy period of time. The food, the transportation, the strange contraptions...

Lifting the quaking rectangular phone from his coat, Cas narrowed sharp eyes at the 'caller id': **Dean**.

The Angel shifted his thumb so that it brushed the green button; ( Sam had given him an extensive tutorial on how to answer his phone, after many initial failed attempts.) Truthfully, he felt a bit relieved, seeing Dean's name. It _had_ been a while since his last call. In fact, Castiel had heard nothing of or from the Winchesters for the least three days. Obviously, over his time with the boys, he learned quick not to waste time worrying about them, as that was _pointless,_ but still... it did strike him as odd. Especially seeing as how they'd gotten into the habit of communicating regularly by way of cell phones, namely calling and texting; though Cas personally preferred the texting. 'Emoticons' made the experience especially intriguing.

"Dean. Where have y-"

"Cas? It's Sam. Look... I don't have a lot of time to explain, but I need you to pick me up, angel-speed."

"Sam? I don't understand, where's-"

"We had a run in with a, uh, _friend_ of our dad's_. _It's a long story."

A pause. Something was definitely wrong, Cas could tell immediately from the tone of Sam's voice.

"I'm getting the impression you're about to say something I won't like."

"Cas... they have Dean, and he's hurt. I need your help."

* * *

a/n Please take the time to review, and thank you so much for reading! I'll definitely be lengthening these as I get further into the story. :)

**LilyBolt**\- I just wanted to say that you are so incredibly sweet, and I legit **melted** over your kind words and reviews. Each one encouraged me a lot, especially coming from such a wonderful and talented writer such as yourself! I just want you to know I'm so touched by your acceptance and just how genuinely awesome you are. ;) Thank you for being such an inspiration- I hope to portray Sam and Dean with the same accuracy as you do in your flawless writing. Thank you so much again, love.


	4. The Gamble

**[ **_A/n _**] **A gigantic big thank you to **_Tami-HU_**, **_serial blogger_**, **_Golden Scroll_**, **_Sweetie420_**, **_Lilybolt_**, **_SupernaturalBaby4Life_**, &amp; a few guests! You guys are wonderful. Reviews are the fire under my feet. ;) And about that, I just want to explain why there hasn't been an update in a while- my computer has broken down, so it's been difficult, but I'm currently trying to resolve the issue. I'll be purchasing a new one soon, so updates will flow much better then. :) Thanks to all who favorited and followed, your continued support is amazing!

Secondary note- forgive grammar issues, I didn't have time to do the in-depth editing this time, not having a computer. xD

* * *

The separation was the worst part of the ordeal. Especially the time Sam spent alone waiting for Cas; abandoned to the mercy of his own mind, which, having been to very dark places in its time, automatically began to theorize...sifting through terrible possible outcomes Dean was always the victim of. He very nearly drove himself insane.

Sam could hear Jenkins' voice in his head. Echos of the deeper tone bounced repeatedly against his skull, like the pin-ball machine Dean used to screw around with in the old arcades when their Dad was out hunting.

Because this guy was not only dangerous, he had a serious bone to pick.

It was supposed to be a 'simple' exchange. Sam had been the one selected to locate the journal and bring it to Jenkins, as Dean was in no condition to even _walk, _in a specific 5-hour window of time. They would then meet up at a designated rendezvous outside of town, where he would make the trade he'd agreed to; the journal for Dean. But if anything went wrong...if he arrived one second later than the five hours he'd been allotted, if Sam tried to fox his way out of the deal, Jenkins had been crystal clear he would take it out directly on his brother. The cruel glint in his eyes when he'd said it, reminiscent of what they'd looked like drained of humanity when he'd carved up Dean with his hunting knife, it sent a chill down Sam's spine...inducing a state of fearful desperation.

He was uneasy for many obvious reasons, but _especially_ the previous history with their family Jenkins claimed to have. Maybe the guy's way of 'burying the hatchet' would be to bury one in Dean's chest, even if he still got what he wanted. That possibility was precisely why Sam knew he had to be smarter than his opponent, one step ahead; using anything and everything in his own favor. _Like in poker_, Sam thought grimly.

Admittedly... Dean had always been the better gambler of the two of them. It was a mutually acknowledged fact, backed up by their individual win and loss ratios, which obviously never lied. Whenever an exasperated, defeated Sam sought out advice, his older brother used to assume that stupid careless grin and shrug. "Just play the _man_, Sammy," he'd say. That's what he needed to do now. But if anything went sideways... if he didn't execute it the right way, if he'd been wrong to assume he could even pull this off in the first place, if...

...he pushed the doubtful thoughts away. There was, very literally, nothing he could do- at least not until he caught up with Cas.

Straightening his back against the wooden bench he'd claimed, Sam shifted his attention to what he could see around him, seeking to preoccupy himself. He did his best to focus on the cars zipping by, the ever-shifting traffic lights, the chatty pedestrians crossing the street... even the freaking mail man going about his usual routine. Trying to think of **_anything_ **but the image of Dean bleeding out in a warehouse alone, and inevitably thinking of nothing else. He barely registered his own name being spoken.

"Sam." The deep, gruff voice clearly belonged to Castiel- _speak of the devil_. Well... sort of.

The angel, despite having already caught Sam's attention, proceeded to move directly in front of the bench where Sam instantly stretched up to his full height. Despite the lightheaded unease that made him nearly sick with dizziness, it was a definite relief to see Cas. To be reminded that he wasn't alone in this, even if he _was_ alone in the blame.

"Sam..."

"There's not a lot of time to explain." Sam cut in quickly, almost repeating word for word what he'd said in their brief phone conversation, hoping his insistence would nip the other's curiosity in the bud. "I promise I'll launch into the full explanation later, but right now-"

"You mentioned Dean was injured. Are you aware of his current location?"

"No. I have to give it to them, they were careful."

"What reason did your captor have to release you, and not Dean?"

Sam knew the question wasn't meant to be insulting, or even _accusatory_ in the vaguest sense, but he still found himself hesitating; taken aback by the other's bluntness. He suppressed the defensiveness that instinctively welled in the pit of his stomach.

"That's...that's kind of why you're here, Cas. More or less. We need a play." Castiel's brow creased to form that confused expression he was notorious for, the one Sam had grown familiar with over their frequent time together.

"I don't understand, why would we need recreational-"

"A _plan_, Cas," Sam reinforced, his air of seriousness not deserting him. "The guy who has Dean- Jenkins- we both have something the other one wants. We've got five hours to figure out a plan."

"What is it he wishes to attain?" Castiel bounced back, dark brows furrowing atop inquisitive blue eyes.

"Dad's journal." The response seemed to quiet him for the time being, and Sam could almost physically see the wheels in the angel's head turning through his concentrated features.

"And... this journal, it stores valuable information?" he asked finally, disintegrating the silence that had begun to build between them.

"Some," Sam confirmed thoughtfully, "I mean, yeah. And some not so much, it depends on what he's after. He could be trying to find something small, or he could be looking for the Holy Grail." But that in itself didn't say much, because even if Jenkins _was_ after something small, who's to say he wouldn't try shooting for the stars down the road? How many _lives_ would that risk?

"So...what will be our first move?"

Sam paused a moment, drawing in a slow breath in an attempt to slow his rapid pulse.

"We go after the journal," he decided after a few minutes, meeting Cas' steady gaze as he did so- who simply nodded.

"Sam," Cas' voice sounded again, fishing out Sam's attention; mostly because the sincerity he detected in it was a little surprising. "are you all right?"

Sam didn't respond at first. Was _he _all right? Sam was severely tempted to act on the anger that quickly heated his blood. Dean pretty much might not make it through the _night, _and Sam had willingly left him alone with the brutal captor that felt nothing but disdain for him. On top of that, Dean hadn't wanted him to do it. It wasn't some..._mutual_ _understanding _that it was the best route for a guy out of options. But of course, Sam had done it anyway, completely disregarding Dean's warning because he thought he could make a difference. And now he couldn't help but entertain the idea he might have made the wrong choice, that Dean might end up _dead _because he had deluded himself into thinking he could scrounge up a better outcome, and Cas was asking if he _was all right? _

...but he refrained. It was pretty evident that his frustration wasn't really directed toward Cas at all, and the last thing he needed to do was turn on the only real ally he had left in this fight. So, instead of giving in like he'd wanted to, Sam slipped a trembling hand through his hair, squeezing his eyes shut until he knew for sure the rage was somewhat defused. Or maybe _dormant _was a better word.

"Let's just get him home, Cas."

* * *

_Son of a bitch. _

Those words pretty much summed up Dean's thoughts for the first few hours following Sam's departure. He was still cooped up in the same bare-ass room, only now he was facing an empty chair as opposed to before. Poorly adjusted bandages littered his arm and shoulder, only doing half the job they had the potential for. He'd been bleeding pretty heavily after being freaking _knifed_ four times over and then some, so they decided at some point that him dying wouldn't work out to well in their favor.

Maybe he should be considering himself 'lucky' for getting any sort of treatment at all, like Jenkins had argued; this crap could definitely be crappier- but it was difficult to look on the brighter side when he was practically soaked in his own blood, enjoying fifty-ass shades of hurt and roped up in some damn warehouse alone. Maybe it was just him, but the cheery circumstances didn't exactly ring him up chalk full of optimism.

At least Sam was out.

It was the only bit of knowledge Dean considered somewhere in the 'comforting' zone, because he knew Sammy had gotten himself 'out' so he could march right back in and bring them _both _out. There wasn't a fiber in his build that doubted it; not that he really had _room _to doubt, at this point. It was one of those times where he had no other choice but to put his faith in Sam, which was daunting in many ways, mostly because he was removed from the steering wheel. He had no control over the situation. He couldn't protect Sam, or himself, or anyone else- and the truth of the fact felt like a thirty-pound weight in his chest.

Helplessness.

He **hated **the feeling with all his guts. Putting his life into someone else's hands was all but agonizing, sitting back on the sidelines and hoping the play turned up in his favor... It just didn't feel _right_, though not to discredit Sam. If Dean had to choose just one person in existence he trusted with his life, it would be Sammy. His continuous worry didn't stem from a lack of trust, as Sam and others would often suspect. Not so much worrying about _himself_, per say, though he did admit there was a bit of survival-entwined adrenaline knotting up his stomach. Dad used to call it a 'healthy fear'. "It'll keep you breathing," he'd say. "Hold onto it."

Maybe that worked for some people; maybe it worked for his Dad. Hell, it had worked for him in the beginning, but Dean soon came to discover that worrying about his own survival was less than motivating... especially when his life wasn't worth all that much to begin with. But it was worth something to Sam. And somehow, the fear for _Sam's_ survival had proven to drive him more than fearing for his own ever could- ignore the fact as he may.

In any case, the only thing he could do in his situation was keep holding on. _That _was what he had power over, his own will, and it was the only thing- so he sure as hell wasn't going to allow Jenkins or anybody else for that matter to gain more ground than they already had. He could do that much.

After another hour or so of pained silence and getting attuned to the sound of his own shallow breathing, Dean heard the first sign of movement he had since they'd patched him up. As the door handle behind him twisted with a creaking moan, he straightened in his seat- the effort of which brought on a wince. He made a point to listen to the sound of the approaching steps; evaluating the newcomer's identity by the strength of the sound. If it was one of Jenkins' lackeys, the footfalls would be heavier as opposed to if it was the homicidal enigma himself- who had something of a natural lighter step.

Because he had a little something he liked to call 'Winchester luck', it happened to be the latter.

"What's the word, skippy?" Dean's eyes followed Jenkins warily as the man moved within his vision, though he still wore one of his careless grins for good measure. The idea of letting Jenkins know how much damn pain he was in was downright sickening.

Jenkins didn't respond audibly, only raising a brow before deciding to help himself to the vacant seat across from Dean. Somehow he looked worlds different than he had before, when the psycho had the knife at his throat. The guy appeared to be more collected, definitely less cagey than he'd been; though Dean wasn't stupid enough to underestimate him. Even if the fight wasn't visible in his eyes in the moment, that in _no_ way meant it wasn't there, somewhere obscured beneath the sense of casualty he seemed to radiate.

"I've given your brother five exact hours to retrieve the journal," Jenkins began, lifting a hand and brushing back the sleeve to reveal a silver watch Dean hadn't noticed before. He narrowed dark eyes at its rounded face. "He's got around...mmm... _ten_ _minutes_ left." Dean shifted a little, swallowing the bile that rose with the nauseating sting when the movement agitated his wounds, threatening to steal his consciousness.

"I'm guessing that's your cue to kill me," Dean responded dryly, unable to use the same amount of confidence he had before; his full attention focused on disguising the hurt from his countenance. Jenkins lifted his chin, forehead scrunching. The expression he made caused silver hairs threaded along his hairline to stick out, revealing he must've used dye to achieve the dark, unnatural color the rest of his hair was stained. Disgust bled through Dean's gaze and pursed lips. There was a part of Dean, a _strong _part that wanted Jenkins to know just how much he **despised **him and his very _existence_\- and he would not hesitate to remind the guy at every freaking opportunity.

"That's when I expect a call, where Sam and I will set up the location for the exchange." Jenkins corrected slowly, a simmering bitterness twirling his lips into a smirk. "But you're not entirely wrong. If I don't receive the call or if, by chance, I don't like what I hear when I do, I'll make sure you Winchesters have a family reunion in _hell_."

The comment had an unexpected effect on Dean, and he found himself unable to respond for a minute, almost needing to process it multiple times. The implications briefly had him forgetting the throbbing agony he was in, a white-hot rage running through his blood while leaving no room to feel or acknowledge anything else. Since Dean hadn't masked the reaction, Jenkins could read his features easily and his interest visibly perked.

"You have that _fire _in you, Dean," Jenkins commented, his voice rimmed with something Dean couldn't define. Maybe distaste. "Definitely John's boy."

"What on earth did he do to you?" Dean responded darkly, hoping to tear open some emotional wounds of his own, fury motivating him to inflict as much pain as had been inflicted on him. If there was one thing Dean couldn't stand for, it was someone screwing with his family. "Must've been a hell of a lot, to turn you into the damned sick bastard you are. And when I say sick, I mean _sick, _and I've dealt with a lot of 'sick bastards' in my time."

The words had the desired effect, and the vengeful gratification Dean experienced brewed hot in his chest as Jenkins lost a fraction of the calm he'd entered the room hiding behind.

"You want to know?" came the deep growl, and Dean lifted his head proudly, body language conveying something to the effect of fearlessness. Finally, the mutual hatred had found its way to the surface, mirrored in both the men's eyes like bared fangs.

"Humor me."

And it looked as if Jenkins was about to do just that, delve into the tale- but before he had a chance, a sort of... _ringing _began to echo, splitting the tension in the room like a knife.

Dean's anger was almost instantly brushed to the side as his eyes lowered, settling on the cell phone Jenkins reluctantly dug through his jacket to retrieve.

_Sam_.

Sam was calling.

He must have the journal.

When Jenkins only lifted a brow at the phone, presumably looking at the caller ID, and didn't answer- impatience mixed with nerves spurred Dean to break the silence between rings.

"I think you should get that," he advised coolly, and while Jenkins did indeed answer it, it was only to a certain extent. After pressing the 'accept call' on his smartphone, he turned to Dean and next thing he knew, the phone was on speaker and being held in front of his mouth. When he remained silent, searching Jenkins for an explanation, "Talk," was all he offered.

Of course, ordering Dean to do something automatically ensured his immediate resistance, but this was _Sam_. Heavy lids fell shut as Dean closed his eyes, blocking Jenkins out and drawing in a deep breath before he forced on his brave face.

"-Hey there, Sammy."

"Dean?" Came a static-y voice, though undeniably Sam's.

"Yeah, what's left of him." Dean intended it to be more of a joke, but the quip fell flat on his tongue. There was a tiny silence, and Dean thought he might have to prompt Sam to get a response, but it ended up being unneeded.

"Tell him if he wants it, he'll show up at the parking lot outside of Rose and Kimball in one hour."

Dean instantly recognized the tactic; Sam was taking control of the exchange, now that he had some form of leverage. It was a gamble. When the elder brother reopened his eyes to get a read on Jenkins' response, fully expecting him to balk at it or call Sam out, to his surprise the older man only shrugged.

"Tell him it's a date."

* * *

**[ **_A/n _**] **Thanks for reading! Sorry again for the wait, hopefully chapters will filter out quicker in the future. Anyway, reviews are the fire under my feet. ;) Feed the squirrel! To be continued...


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